Comforters, cozy pillows, and a chapter of a book
by Avila Grace
Summary: How does Angela Martin sleep at night? A look at how she rationalizes what she does, how she feels about the two men in her life, and what she's planning on doing about it. Spoilers: Weight Loss.


A/N: This is a one shot. And that's all it will ever be, so please don't ask me to continue it because I just don't have time. :) Also, I hope you like it... This is my first time writing from Ang. Ela. Under my Angerella ella ella's point of view... I've heard so many people asking about why Angela would be okay with what she's doing, and so I decided I'd try and tackle it. And here's the result...

For those of you who are wondering about my other story (i only have one unfinished, right?) I promise I will get to it. Life is just incredibly busy. I'm working 60ish hour weeks, taking a 12 hour course load, and trying to find time for me in the midst of it all. But one of these days, I will update Broken Heart. I promise, promise, promise.

Please review and let me know what you think!!

* * *

"I have a nice comforter, and several cozy pillows. I usually read a chapter of a book, and it's lights out by eight thirty. That's how I sleep at night." When they'd asked her how she slept at night, she'd known what they were talking about. She wasn't naïve, or stupid. She'd asked the same thing of the other sinful floozies she'd run across in her many years, and she wasn't sure how she felt about the question being posed at her. Technically, she was doing the same thing all those other sluts she'd once criticized were, but her motives were different, and her heart was conflicted, and that had to count for something. The truth was, no matter what stone cold face she put on, or how she snapped at the questions they seemed to dagger at her in her interviews, the nice comforter, cozy pillows and bedtime readings did nothing to soothe the ache that ripped at her heart or the sins that plagued her.

She could remember sitting in the pews at church, or at the table during Sunday School as a child, listening as she was read stories about adulteresses being stoned, or whores being called out by Jesus, and she could remember one specific time, when her sunday school teacher had stared her in the eye and asked her if she wanted to be the whore called out by Jesus. She'd shaken her head no, pursing her lips together as she silently resolved never to bring disgrace to herself or her family for a night of drunken love or uncontainable passion. She hadn't known what sex was, or what lust was back then as a child, but she'd vowed to never give into it.

And she hadn't. She'd been ridiculed, shunned, and alienated for her views as she grew up. Boys had looked her up and down, and even though sometimes she'd ached to just push it all behind her and experience _something,_ she never had. She'd been plagued as the girl who was a prude, unflinching in her outdated ideas of being a virgin bride. And when her sister had given into the temptation of premarital sex, she'd had no choice but to completely alienate herself. It wasn't that she was necessarily angry. It was, but it was a mixture of things. She was angry, sure, but she was also saddened and upset that her sister had left behind the strong morals that were instilled so deep in her. She was half-scared of the impending judgement of her sister's sins, and she was scared of the implications it would have on her own life. Because the truth was, she was jealous. She was jealous of those girls who could go out night after night and sleep with a different man, and even though she kept a tight rein on her modesty, she secretly wished for the chance to just leave it all behind just once. To let her hair down and really _live,_ and the idea that her sister had gotten to do that tore her apart.

Instead of letting her true feelings and emotions show, she'd done what she always did. She'd put on her stone cold face and gotten angry. She'd come up with excuses to condemn her sister, calling her a bad influence and a woman after Satan's own heart, while inwardly pain seared through her at the thought that she must be missing something.

She'd taken solace in her bible, reading in the Corinthians where Paul said it was best to not marry and work for the Lord. She'd skipped over the part about "burning with passion" being an acceptable reason to get married, knowing that even as she did burn with it, there was no one to return it. The truth was, she didn't think she'd ever find someone who would want her the way she wanted someone to. She couldn't imagine someone that would ever want to marry her. When she tried to imagine someone, all she could see was a younger version of her father. Proper, proud, clean, orderly, educated. She saw her father as she had as a young child at church, a striped tie, dark blue blazer and khakis, his arm wrapped dutifully around her mother's shoulders as they listened to the preacher speak about God's wrath and the weight of sin. She could still see the pearls around her mother's neck, the pursed lips as she listened, and her father, his arm around her mother but still miles away, staring straight into the pulpit as he watched the preacher. They were never warm as she was growing up. They'd gotten married because it was proper and right, and growing up, she'd always been told who she should marry and how. But she hadn't met the younger version of her father to compliment her as an adult, so instead, she'd resigned herself to being alone. Paul had said it was best, hadn't he?

She'd been fine with her decision. She had learned to live with it. Slowly, the aching had gotten foggier and foggier. She'd learned to push things out of her life that made her want to be with someone, until all she had left were her cats and her bible, and that was more than enough for her. She'd gotten into a comfortable schedule. She'd wake up every morning at six for a devotional. She'd start her day with a cup of yogurt and bran. Sometimes, she'd mix some cut up strawberries in as well, but not often. She'd dress quickly, pulling one blouse out of her closet, and one of her many complimentary skirts. She'd learned years ago to not draw attention to herself by buying all of her clothes in either grey, black or charcoal, and it made it easier in the morning to get dressed. By seven fifty-five she was out the door, and by eight-twelve she walked through the door of Dunder Mifflin. She worked until precisely eleven-fifteen in the morning, then took a short break to fix her salad for lunch. She normally ate it at her desk as she worked, and by the time five rolled around, all of her coworkers had gone home for the most part. She normally stayed until six thirty, then she went home and cooked a baked potato. She didn't put anything on it, and she'd gotten in the habit of skinning the baked potato after she cooked it. The skin was dirty, and the bible had told her to stay away from all dirty deeds. Be in the world and not of it, and potato skins were definitely part of the earth. So she refused to eat them. After her potato, she'd cuddle in bed and read a chapter, usually falling asleep quickly. Until she met him.

She hadn't noticed him at first. She'd learned quickly to divert her eyes from the opposite sex. She'd learned so well, she hardly noticed them at all. She didn't notice many people, other than their obvious lack of reverence for the Lord. But she'd noticed him one morning, taking charge of the office. Her heart had raced inside her chest, her palms getting sweaty. She'd had to run to the bathroom to wash her hands off and compose herself, hating what he'd done to her in that quick minute. Her affections grew and grew with each clipboard he wrote on and each ruler he slammed against a desk, but she'd learned to subdue them, buttoning her blouse an extra button when he rose, and hairspraying her hair a little more at lunch until she felt so uptight she couldn't do anything about it. But then, she'd caught him staring as she walked by one day, and slowly she'd caught little glances and gestures from him that made her sure there was something there. And then, one night, it'd started.

Somewhere between first aid kits, demerits, and baby ruth bars, she'd fallen for him. It had started slow, to the point where she almost didn't realize it had happened. She'd let herself feel giddy once, giving into the feeling of sheer happiness that she'd ached for and leaving behind her rigid exterior for just a moment. Once she'd given it, each time was a little easier, until finally, all she could do was give in. She spent her every waking moment thinking about him, until finally, she spent every waking moment with him.

She could still remember the first time she'd given into her desire to have sex with Dwight. It had started with a peck on the lips a few weeks earlier, and each day it had escalated into more and more. She'd started thinking more and more about going further and further, and her morning devotionals had gotten shorter and shorter, until she'd finally found herself slowly forgetting her morals as she kissed him. Then one night, she'd been so caught up in the feeling of her lips on his that when he snaked his hand down her side, she didn't swat it away. And by that time, it felt too good to stop it. And once she'd had him once, twice didn't seem so bad. And so it went, for years, as they fell farther in love. She convinced herself it was okay because in her heart, she was already married to him. But she knew she was cheating the system.

She'd kept it up, letting the guard she'd put around her heart down long enough for him to come in and sweep her away. She let him take her heart in his hands, trusting him so assuredly. She'd fallen for him in a way she'd never thought she could, and even though he wasn't at all what she was expecting out of her life, she let herself have it.

And then, as they say it always does, the shit had hit the fan. Sprinkles had gotten sick, and she'd made the mistake of entrusting him to care for her. He'd betrayed her. Just like everyone had always told her the men did. Just like her sunday school teacher had told her years ago. Just like her mother had told her before she went off to college. Men were good for nothing, and his type of man, they broke hearts. Her mother had told her one day that it was better to marry someone you didn't love than to allow betrayal by loving someone. She'd held that advice close to her heart until she met him, and once he'd betrayed her, she wasn't sure what to do.

So she'd turned where her mother had years before. She'd given up on forgiving him for what he'd done—it was too immoral, and to hurtful for her to ever give him another chance. But when Andy had come to her one day and asked her to dinner, she'd started to give him more thought. And he'd kept at it, pursuing her deeply until all she could do was say yes. And the repulsion lessened and lessened until finally, she'd started to like him. And when he said "I love you" to her a few months later, she'd responded with a nod of her head and a soft kiss to the lips. Nothing more. Nothing less. She refused to let herself love someone again. She refused to be hurt like she had been before, so she resorted herself to having the same type of relationship was her mother and father did, with someone who was the spitting image of her father as a younger man. He was everything she'd always pictured herself marrying, so when he proposed months later in the parking lot of the office where they worked, she'd said "okay". She knew she should marry him. He was a good man, and he loved her and would be good to her, but she couldn't explain why the moment he asked, the only person she could think to look at was the very man who had broken her heart only months earlier.

But, that night, when she'd gone upstairs to grab her purse, she'd ran into him. He'd came out of the restroom, whispered his congratulations, and all she could do was just whisper his name, her tone pleading him. She wasn't sure what she was pleading for, but she was pleading. He'd caught her eye and held it, and before she knew it, his lips had crashed against hers and she couldn't pull herself away from him. She only needed one goodbye kiss, and then one goodbye kiss turned into one goodbye strip, into one goodbye orgasm, until finally, she'd found herself feeling all of the things she'd tried to fence back in.

And once she'd let herself start to feel those emotions again, they wouldn't go away. She knew she still loved him. She still ached for him to hold her, and she still yearned for his touch, but she couldn't. Not when he'd betrayed her. She couldn't risk it all. She couldn't risk her shot at marriage, her shot with another man, just to be betrayed again. So she settled for what she could, continuing to sleep with one man while being engaged to the other.

She didn't love Andy, but she didn't hate him, either. He was just there. She liked him. He had grown on her. She found herself being refreshingly honest with him about everything except for Dwight. He knew she didn't find herself in love with him, and he knew she was having a hard time letting her guard go, but he didn't care. He loved her despite of this, and when he'd proposed, she'd felt it all coming together. Everything her mother had ever told her about the perfect man she'd found in him. In his striped ties, navy blazer and khaki pants. He was who she was supposed to marry. And so she was going to.

She was conflicted. Torn. She knew who she loved. But she knew who she wanted to marry. And for the first time, they weren't the same person. She loved Dwight. She wanted to be with Dwight. But she was scared to risk it all with someone who had betrayed her so horribly once before. She wasn't sure she could ever trust him again, regardless of how her body ached for him. And that, that was why she wasn't a floozy, or a slut, or the "office mattress." That was why Angela Martin was different than all of the other girls she'd once raised her eyebrows at. She wasn't sleeping around out of sheer lust. She was conflicted. She was in love with one man, but marrying another. And both decisions felt right to her.

Or at least, that's what she convinced herself. The truth was, she knew they weren't right. She knew she had to say goodbye to one. She knew which one it had to be. But she couldn't. She couldn't bid farewell. And that was why the comforter, and the cozy pillows, and the chapter in books couldn't put her to sleep at night. She knew something wasn't right, but she wasn't sure how to do anything about it.

A/N: So, whadja think? Honesty is the best policy.


End file.
